Fragile Bones
by songsora
Summary: After the reappearance of Bilbo's will, war-wearied Frodo is thrust into an unfortunate situation - forcing him to choose the first girl he meets as to escape the clamor. Frodo/OC.
1. Prologue: Letter

_Dearest Frodo,_

_Now now, my lad, before you doom this poor letter to useless folly and a fiery death upon the hearth, do allow me to explain the vital importance of my writing to you at this hour! Yes, it is indeed late as I write, but in my defense, my dreams were invaded by very dark, wraithlike things. I should not like to immerse myself so vulnerably in such a dangerous affair as sleep anymore if pictures like that are to swim about my indolent head! There now, I've already digressed. Forgive me, Frodo, for I fear I might have wasted your precious time already – why, you might have been going out for a walk just now, or a nice whiff of that Eastfarthing weed, if you happen to still have such luxuries around you when you are delivered this letter, that is. Digressing, digressing…I know my lad! My brain is all a mess from the most perplexing dream…_

_As you are well aware, Frodo, I have left Bag End and all of its worldly possessions to you, and I have entrusted its safety, and otherwise, its legacy to you as well. Has there ever been another name but Baggins to dwell in the halls of Bag End? I daresay not my boy! And it is my hope that there never will be another curly head but that of Baggins blood to be sheltered by the warmth and comfort which Bag End ceaselessly offers, rain, shine, winter and spring! And so, to ensure, expectantly, that my former abode does not fall into less capable hands than yours, Frodo, and that of your heirs, I shall propose a wish, my last, very last, wish I have to ask of you._

_Due to my adventures with the dwarves, and the roads which I have taken that led not to content settlement, but far from the very idea of that boring old existence, sitting by the window, waiting for the first rains to fall! But that, my lad, is what happens when discontentment churns the heart, and I have never lost that sense of longing for a new adventure waiting just about the bend of the road. For you, however…you have lived a peaceful life, I deem. And I take it you have spent most of these past years under the green, heavy boughs of the old Shire forest, have you not? _

_But alas, I digress._

_The point which I try so very hard to conclude to, Frodo, is that life is so very lonely without companionship, and I trust that you do not take lightly my meaning. Before you are weary with age, Frodo, I should like you to marry. An intellectual, or a gardener, or socialite lass, my terms are not so strict, if that is what you like! But for you to marry, nonetheless, is my last wish for you Frodo. Marry, and I shall be the most happy hobbit in all of Arda when we meet again, for I know it will be so very soon, Frodo. Our paths will cross, I am sure of it, and lead us, the both of us, along the road of contentment, though I am quite sure that we define very differently the comforts of this life. My surmise is that you find good books and a lush ground of springy turf to lie upon would be a practice you should like to indulge for the rest of your young hobbit life!_

_Should you decide to fulfill my wish, Frodo, I shall be so very pleased to meet this wife of your when we do meet again! There is a change in the air, Frodo; I feel it as I write! We will meet sooner than you should think._

_Until then, my lad, take good care of yourself. Drinking at the old Green Dragon with those miscreants Meriadoc and Peregrin and strolling through the meadows of the Shire will find you nowhere, and you should have no wife before the time will come again for us to see one another again! Throw parties, Frodo, socialize with the whole of Hobbiton, and you should find that wife of yours quicker than the flicker of a cricket's wings._

_With all my love,_

_Bilbo Baggins_

_P.S._

_Oh, and Frodo my lad, upon your thirty-seventh birthday, I have allowed old Will Whitfoot to announce your eligibility – with a bit of a reward for the lass who woos you first!_


	2. Chapter 1: Gossip

It was a very strange affair in which the hobbits that had set out from Hobbiton and, it seemed not so long ago now, returned from their unscrupulous travels amongst the many paths of the outside world. Their arrival had been the pinnacle of chatter, amongst glimmers of conversation and peacock gossip, especially doused with ale in the _Green Dragon _amid the raucous chorus of singers and rhythmic cadence of proud, hair-spattered feet which danced upon the table tops. Very curious it was, to see those four disappeared hobbits, all of which queer, except for old trusty Samwise, turned up again so unexpectedly, like old Bilbo again gone off on that most disdainful escapade of his. And dressed as they were, like proud folk of the outsiders! It was all very strange indeed, and some of hobbits suffered their ruffled feathers over the topic for many a month after their unconventional…_reappearance_.

They all seemed callused now, most noticed. Even Samwise, once a round, cheerful looking hobbit, now seemed more gaunt about the edges, paler than before, even wiser in his choice of conversation amongst the old millers. Some said it was the passing of the old Gaffer that did him in, that turned the twinkle of his eye to that dreary darkness. But there were rumors that Samwise had endured much more than surface-deep scratches along the way, during his treks across the outside lands of the Shire. Some cuts just ran too deep, they said, to be healed all in one day.

Merry and Pippin, now…their story seemed not much altered. Their favor for good drink and pipe weed never lessened, and it was not a surprise to most folk when they'd mosey on in from a long day's toil in the fields or at the mill to find the two flamboyant, unruly hobbits wheeling about the pub, sloshing ale every which way as they danced to a familiar jig. Their part in the incidental advent of the adventurous quad of hobbits had dwindled quickly out of small talk, for they settled back into the grain of hobbit society quite nicely, like trying on a pair of old gloves that still fit. The fit was smug, but they could wrap their fingers about the fabric of Hobbiton's goings on well enough.

It was the account of Frodo Baggins that remained the enigma of the little town, and mystery soon morphed into haughty rumors. It was an oddity indeed that the once free-spirited heir of Bilbo Baggins should take to his hole so adamantly, never drifting out for even the smallest of discussions with his neighbors, nor making his once routine appearances at the pub for a bit of catching up on weather and gardening. The day he had come in on that stout little pony was the day Frodo Baggins threw himself quite stubbornly out of all hobbit society. Stricken with pallor, he had been, and weary, almost thin, like worn parchment. Some would see him out and about walking, though he took to the familiarity of his long-lost habitual comforts very rarely, and was hardly seen again after his returning debut as most handsomely rich hobbit of Hobbiton altogether, at least they surmised. Ted Sandyman held fast to the rumor that Bilbo Baggins had been an impish conjurer indeed, and had feigned the entire story of his treasures, so that his legacy would not seem so unusual with a lot of treasure snuck under the floorboards of his rather extravagant hole.

But most could not agree with arrogant old Sandyman, and bobbed their heads with certainty whenever the name of Baggins would reach their lips, when parched throats and slobbering mouths were absolutely deprived of good scandal. Frodo Baggins was as cracked as old Bilbo! Dear as Bilbo was, his mind was as scrambled as a couple of shaken eggs, and poor Frodo, wraithlike and aloof, was slowly descending into the same fate as his uncle.

"Poor, poor Frodo," cried Berylla Chubb, wailing into her hands. "The poor chap is as white and thin as an old ghost! He needs hasty fattening!"

"Oh, pish," Ted Sandyman snorted abruptly, crossing his arms defiantly over his stout chest. "And what are you to do of it, Berylla? Send off a nice mincemeat pie to the fella? If you haven't listenin' to the daily chatter, lassie, the Baggins hardly answers to anyone 'round here anymore. We ain't good enough for his regal presence." Ted sniffed, very much put out by the whole affair of the notorious Frodo Baggins.

Berylla passed toward him a terrible glower. "Oh hush, you goat! It's not as if you've done anything more than push around the dirt by your old mill. And anyway, if you had any so much as a whiff of the hall of a king's, you'd have an air of formality about you too!"

"Hah!" Sandyman exclaimed, throwing back his head and engaging in quite a hearty chortle. Samwise said nothing, even as Ted hurried along his line of dangerous conversation, but Samwise's knuckles were beginning to turn a fiendish white with his hands clutched tight about his mug of ale.

"If you was to ask me 'bout this whole ordeal, I'd say Frodo was up to somethin'! All day, all night even, he locks himself in his hole, but what's he doin' up there that stays so secret with him, aye? I say he's plannin' something big, but you dinnit hear this from ol' Ted Sandyman. That Baggins is a dangerous fella, mark my words!"

The entire plank, which hobbits unrightfully deemed a table, trembled as the wrath of a patient Samwise was unleashed from its secrecy. Berylla, Ted Sandyman, and even poor Peregrin Took cowered from the flashing, turbulent eyes of their once gentle, soft-spoken friend.

"Now listen here you, you ol' squabbling cock! Mister Frodo's done no one wrong 'round here, and all you vultures seem to do is pluck him to pieces! Well I don't want to hear another word out of that throat of yours, you ingrate ol' Sandyman, because if it wasn't for Mister Frodo, you'd have found yourself in a quite different place than you'd ever imagine!"

Pippin stood up first out of the trembling bunch, still not acclimated to Samwise's growth spurt along the journey's way. He gave Samwise a sideways, crooked smile and patted him softly on the shoulder, reaching his arm about him and leading him out into the watery balm of the late summer's night.

As soon as they left, Ted Sandyman had regained his former composure, dusting off his tunic with a discomfited sniff. "Mark my words, Berylla, that ol' _Samwise_ is a dangerous fella!"

September rolled lazily in with the closing of the late summer. And although autumn was chomping at the bit, just around the bend of old, withered summer, the warm, genteel weather had not relented to the chill of the changing seasons, and Hobbiton still looked vibrant with blossomed flowers and seas of long grasses that stretched their lush hands across the entirety, or so it seemed, of the Shire. Trees still held their emerald hued leaves close to them, not allowing them to venture off just yet into the world. Tepid breezes blustered through the boughs of the ancient, wise trees and rattled their leaves, coursing their gossamer, wistful fingers through the limbs and their whistling laugh playing across the green country like strange, bittersweet music. Mother Nature was quite content.

As for the hobbits, they were so busily working to harvest their wheat crop that they hardly noticed the delay in the season. All day, beneath the mild sun, they worked their fingers with those hoes and rakes nearly to the bone, and were much too busy to see or hear much of anything at the rate they were working. And thus, the rumors which still circulated around Frodo like bothersome flies had receded, but were merely left in a dusty corner, and Frodo knew they'd be picked right back up again with the closing of the harvest season.

But with the advent of September, there came another expectation besides the harvest. It had been deemed tradition, after seventeen years of practice, that the Bagginses would throw their annual birthday party. And though the last four years they had missed it due to Frodo's bewildering disappearance, they were very much expecting the extravaganza, and if not a public announcement of the party, at least the dispatch of invitations.

And so, the hobbits merely reacted to their usual impatient ways of expectancy, and resorted to their old ways of gossip, whilst they gathered around a good mug of ale and pipe after a long day of work. Some hoped it would reach Frodo, in order to spark a bit of life to his faded memory of what was expected of him in his widely renowned traditions.

And much to Frodo's dismay, it just so happened to reach his reluctant ears.

"No, most certainly not!" Frodo exclaimed, a little crossly. "No more petty celebrations for me. I've quite done away with such frivolities for good."

Pippin, however, who longed for a good birthday party for his shrunken old friend, tried to persuade him otherwise. Along with Meriadoc, of course, as the two were hardly found out of one another's presence.

"Poor old Frodo," Pippin began. "You are much too solemn, you know, and with excellent reason. Why not try to lift your troubles with a bit of socialization? You don't have to talk to them, old friend. Hosts rarely linger about for conversation, after all."

Merry piped in. "And, don't forget all that scandal going about! Perhaps, if you give them reason not to chatter incessantly, they'll leave you in peace."

Frodo looked at them with a quiet eye, but did not answer, merely drifted off into the kitchen to fetch the shrieking tea kettle. Merry and Pippin exchanged purposeful glances, determination like a sparkle in each mischievous eye.

At that moment, while Frodo was still away in the kitchen, busy with the tea, Samwise arrived quite late at the door, allowing himself in, but only to find himself presented with two whispering hobbits in the drawing room, looking very much involved in their conversation.

"And just what are you two jesters plotting?"

Pippin craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Frodo, who seemed quite ignorant to the planning which was engaged in behind his back. Merry then waved Samwise in, in his clandestine manner, and Samwise was yanked down between the two rascally hobbits.

"Tell us, Sam, have you heard the rumors of the expected party?" Pippin whispered.

"Party?" Sam said aloud, and was immediately hushed, simultaneously, by the duo.

"Yes, Sam, the party!" Merry replied quietly.

"I've heard a good deal about nothing, Merry, and that's no mistake. But all I've heard about a party by Mister Frodo is one imagined up by those blasted peacocks again, I assure you."

"Of course, of course," Pippin's brow furrowed irritably. "I've heard them too. Quite a bunch of folly, don't you think?"

"Well, yes." Sam replied warily.

"But not if we convince him to play along with all those peacocks," Merry interceded. "Wouldn't you agree Sam, that if Frodo held that infuriatingly bothersome party of his that the whole of Hobbiton has been chattering about for weeks, he'd earn that peace he's been in very much need of?"

Of course, Samwise was not so easily persuaded by Merry and Pippin, but after thinking over the matter himself, he found that he was very much inclined toward the idea of seeing his companion wear a smile again, even if the event was not held by his own accord.

So, when it happened that Frodo came back into the fold of conversation once again, he was bombarded, lightly of course due to his fragility, by Merry and Pippin with reasons why he should surrender to the impatient hobbits and throw the annual party, like tradition. But it was Samwise, whom Frodo trusted the most, that did him in.

"It's Mr. Bilbo's birthday too, Mister Frodo," Sam offered. "If you're not going to celebrate it for yourself, then do it for him."

And Frodo, though reluctant as he was, obliged the trio his acceptance of the idea. Merry and Pippin, thoroughly ecstatic over the finalization of Frodo's decision, promised to help with food orders and decorations. But Sam, not at all certain that Merry and Pippin could handle such an enormous occupation as party planning, especially one of this magnitude, allowed them only the task of ordering the ale and cheeses. All the other necessities, and indulgences for that matter, Sam would take into his own hands, and he hoped with Rosie's assistance, as he wasn't all that sure he could handle the undertaking himself.

Frodo was assigned with most of the work, which was quite a burden when the poor hobbit had no intention of throwing any insufferable parties in the first place, and now had to deal with a great deal of hobbits on the bell all throughout the day, coming by to finalize party business. Frodo hadn't realized how ardently he wished for untarnished tranquility until he'd actually been faced with a quite social situation and, no matter how unsettled his quietude was before, he now wished to have it back.

The party had long been discussed even before the invitations were sent off, and had been the sole of discussion since old nosey Ted Sandyman had given the news that he had seen sacks of invitations sent to Bag End from the post. Tongues wagged and eyes sparkled with excitement. Oh how they longed for another party! That way, they could see for themselves if Frodo Baggins was as cracked or dangerous as some deemed him to be.

The day of the celebration had arrived at last.

It was not as extravagant as Bilbo's last party had been; in fact, it was considerably smaller, and less were invited, but it was highly commended nonetheless upon the moment the guests began to show their flushed, exuberant faces. Frodo was pinioned, against his will, by steadfast Samwise at the gate, where the guests treated Frodo with at least feigned civility, lest they should find themselves dismissed from the anticipated event. And for all that ale to gone not tasted by their treacherously gossiping tongues!

"I feel as if I should see Bilbo turn up at any moment, Sam," Frodo murmured, and Sam averted his eyes away from the softened face of an old Chubb to find his companion quite overwhelmed by the heedless swarm of memories. "It's just as I recollect, all flooded with people we barely deem familiar to us, but are expected to treat as gentlehobbits would."

Samwise, the mild and quiet hobbit that he was, feared to see such unrest and turbulence in the countenance of his dear friend. His eyes were still just as blue as fresh forget-me-nots blossomed within the balmy warmth of spring, but paler, and rimmed with red-rimmed thoughts and distant toils. His greetings began to grow limp and cold, unaware of his current situation, as Frodo sometimes drifted along with the slow rise and tide of impetuous contemplation.

"If it is at all a comfort, Mister Frodo, this may be your last long-expected party."

Frodo bequeathed an odd, sort of weary smile upon him then. "I think you may be quite in the right, Sam."

Even as the party edged on and the last guest had arrived, Sam realized how much he truly disliked the tone he had recognized in Frodo's voice. The way he had concurred with him made Sam's heart turn cold, like stone under the spell of winter's chill.

It seemed as if it had not been long before the ale was brought out and Frodo was dragged unwillingly right into the heart of the clamor. It was a strange sort of feeling to Frodo, being immersed in such social settings, and yet feeling as if he weren't even there. They never touched him, not once, at least not purposefully; and if they had even so much as grazed his elbow or collided with him unintentionally, they'd stutter an apology, or draw back their hand as if they'd been scorched by fire.

But Frodo could expect no less from them; they were intimidated by things which they could not rightfully understand. He was a familiarity stretched like skin over the alien. Feared by his hobbit peers.

It was not long before he had met them, the singular family that night who seemed undaunted by the disapproval of the other hobbits. Rudigar Noakes was his name, and fairly reckoned a queer sort of fellow. He despised Hobbiton, in all reality, but had relented to the wishes of his vibrant, ostentatious wife, Mirabella, to migrate from their old home in Bucklebury, where Rudigar had lived in tranquil comfort.

Mirabella , however, depended upon the immigration, desperate to socialize herself and her estranged daughter with the best of the Shire's inhabitants. Some Hobbiton folk, as was the normality of such superficial, guarded creatures, resented her vivacious urgency, and her quite outlandish connections.

But it soon came to pass that they welcomed her into the tight knit of their gossip circle when she proved herself quite the conversationalist. Their daughter, however, had yet to prove herself as vivacious and acceptable as her mother.

So was the story Frodo heard from Rudigar himself, who seemed entirely eager to speak with the notoriously unsociable hobbit of Bag End.

Night was beginning to grow old, and the moon, weary and insipid, like a watery marble engraved in a dark wave of sky, gave little light to the revelers as they filled themselves with food and good ale. Frodo hardly touched the ale, much less any food, as he was already quite overly indulged by his fellow hobbit folk – on remarks of the weather and petty gossip, which Frodo found himself listening to throughout the night, wishing ruefully that he could find Sam, though it seemed impossible to find much of anyone in such a thick, riotous crowd.

But at last, Sam seemed to break through the surging crowd to find his overwrought friend, though remorseful as to have to deliver Frodo a bit of perturbing news. Frodo was at first overwhelmed with happiness to see his old friend again, but once Sam had delivered his message, Frodo's flame of relief was snuffed out, like a candle caught in a gust of wind.

"Of what important news could Mayor Whitfoot possibly have that concerns me, Sam?" Frodo snarled, pale eyes flashing haphazardly. "Now I am quite ready to go home, if you will not join me, then I will take my leave of my own accord."

But Sam, though disheartened by his companion's sudden change of mood, grabbed a vice hold upon Frodo's departing forearm and gripped it tight. Frodo turned on him, piqued, and looked as if he were to vanquish Sam's iron will with a good verbal walloping.

"I think it would be in your best interest to stay, Mister Frodo, as this most certainly concerns you," Sam promised. "Merry, Pippin, Fatty and I will be with you the whole way through it, if need be."

Frodo, puzzled at Sam's vague declaration of loyalty, knitted his brow and parted his lips, fleeting rosebuds, to inquire after Sam's strange disposition. But his chance was smothered before he could even so much as think of asking, as the Mayor Will Whitfoot had flounced upon the stage.

Whitfoot was a stout, charming hobbit, with pink stained cheeks and a keen, bright eye, as was normal for such a cheerful, content race as hobbits. Silver hair, a sign of his impending age, gleamed in the firelight, and all around him the revelers raised up their mugs, not at all surprised by Whitfoot's appearance, and on the contrary, welcomed him arbitrarily. He hushed the capricious swell of hobbits that stood, and sat rather, before him in great multitudes. More had shown up than was to be expected, as Frodo was not quite so popular, even more so than before his bizarre adventure.

"Gentle hobbits! We have all assembled here for the purpose of a very special hobbit of this established community, as you are all well aware," Whitfoot beamed, searching the crowd for Sam's sand-speckled head. "Ah! Samwise, ol' chap, bring that Frodo Baggins up here for all to see! Poor Baggins, the dear is much too shy for what is good for him!"

Sam lead a disgruntled Frodo Baggins through the troupe of hobbits, and all the while feigned a materialized smile which seemed to appear out of nowhere, and was out of place, dabbed so carelessly across his ruffled countenance. Frodo had not the mind for such foolish pretenses, and his expression was quite ferociously indignant.

"Sam, what is it that is happening?" Frodo asked quietly.

"You shall see, Mister Frodo. I have not the authority to be telling such secrets." Sam murmured contritely, and helped Frodo onto the platform, where Mayor Whitfoot stood, beaming with the intensity of a buttery, vivacious sun.

"You see, hobbits, it is not everyday that a gentlehobbit turns fifty! Such a special occasion this is, that even our dear Bilbo Baggins has deemed it so rightfully imperative! And here, good friends of the Shire, is why Bilbo names this day fundamental –" Whitfoot, now bespectacled, reached into the breast pocket of his overcoat and revealed to the entirety of the party's company a singular white parchment and, though insignificant in size and measure, vastly important in content. Frodo gazed upon the parchment, eyes focused on the simple signature at the bottom which read Bilbo Baggins in his familiar calligraphy; he had to suppress the urge to rip the parchment from Mayor Whitfoot's hand.

"Well now, my friends, this very much involves you in the life of our now estranged Frodo Baggins here! And I shall tell you why…"

The crowd was so exceptionally silent that it seemed the faces were that of the grave, and they stared wide-eyed at their mayor, their mouths gaping in surprise. Usually, soft utterances of dubious inquiries would pass from throat to throat, but tonight, they were all stunned into placid quietude.

"Dear Hobbiton, it seems, Frodo has been, by our dear Bilbo, asked to take a wife –" The crowd gasped, awakened from their awestruck immobility and beginning to mutter amongst themselves.

"But wait…" said the Mayor, peering at the parchment in his hand. "And whom so shall ever impart their fair daughter to the hand of the heir of Bag End shall meet with a rather fine reward for their acquiescence!"

If the crowd had not been consumed by a frenzy before the mention of a 'reward' for their daughters, there was most certainly afterward. Hobbits, both young and old, clamored for the handsome gentlehobbit with a ferocity that reminded Sam and Frodo of orcs – primitive, mindless creatures with a constant lust for carnage and iniquity. Frodo wanted to cry out in fear, with the faces of his town folk replaced by that of the face of the hideous creatures, and far into the past he reeled, feeling dizzy and out of sorts.

But the mirage passed, and Frodo found himself rushed off to safety by Sam and Merry, with Pippin and Fatty Bolger at the battlefront holding off the enemy. Frodo felt as if he were moving in a haze, a thick fog which choked his senses and drove him deeper into his despair. So badly he wanted the ring again, so that he could fade into the security of dark, cloaking concealment.

He knew it was folly, to wish for such a thing, but nonetheless, he did.

Sam was quick to fetch the kettle for tea, whilst Merry pressed a cold cloth to Frodo's head, hoping to revive him from his stupor, as it had calmed poor Rosie during her pregnancy with Elanor. Frodo's shock seemed to make Sam feel much more remorseful than should have been allowed, and he wished he could have warned Frodo, so that he would not have been so bombarded with the news of his encroaching marriage before Frodo himself knew it was coming.

The cool cloth resurrected him from the vaporous fog Frodo seemed entrapped within, and he emerged from the haze, in a flurry of misplaced anger. Sam expected it, the accusations and the resentful disbelief; but Sam also knew that it was not directed toward him, and had learned, especially over the course of the ringbearer's journey that Frodo meant no harm – his life had been scathed by the cruel malice of the ring.

Merry, however, knew not how to cope with Frodo's misplaced wrath.

"As if we were entrusted with such information!" Merry exclaimed. "I had not a sliver of warning beforehand, just as you, good cousin!"

However, Frodo's rage began to dwindle as swiftly as it had come, an erratic habit Sam had found recognizable after having been its sole companion those many months Frodo suffered the burden of the One Ring. He soon calmed however, especially with the comfort of tea close by.

"Please forgive me," Frodo sulked quietly, staring halfheartedly at his tea cup as the steam rolled lazily off the surface of it. "It seems that an ill-temper often has the better of me."

"There are no grudges held here, Mister Frodo," Sam smiled softly, and Merry nodded eagerly beside him.

Frodo seemed entirely calm by the time the old Mayor Whitman, followed by a flustered Pippin and Fatty Bolger, entered the exquisite Bagginses hole. Both Fatty and Pippin pestered Sam for a pint of water. Mayor Whitfoot came flouncing into the room, his usual beam that appeared ceaselessly present upon his plump, cheerful face.

"Good evening, Mayor Whitfoot," Frodo murmured, holding out a chair for the elder hobbit in an attempt to be a good host. "Sit, and might I offer you a bit of tea?"

The mayor huffed as he flopped down in a chair beside Frodo, relief washing over his wizened face like a wave breaking over the shoreline. He set his walking stick at rest beside the table leg.

"Why, thank you my lad! I shall be glad for a cup of tea." Mayor Whitfoot's eye twinkled merrily in the firelight.

As soon as Whitfoot was settled into the comforts that Bag End could offer, and the door made sure to be undisturbed by bothersome guests in search of that named bachelor for their pretty daughters, the company sat around the table in the cooking room, all six huddled about the last written wishes of Bilbo Baggins.

"This letter I might properly reckon as the last will of Bilbo Baggins of the Shire." Whitfoot said, and averted his eyes upon poor Frodo Baggins.

It was to be a long night, he supposed.


	3. Chapter 2: Engagement

AN: Now that I've posted the last chapter that I wrote a while back, this will be going on an indefinite hiatus - indefinite, in this case meaning, only until I start writing again. I'm hoping to finish this story someday!

Thanks for reading.

* * *

Frodo was quiet as he watched the steam that emanated like smoke from his tea cup unfurl in its long, sinuous lengths, drawing him tight into a circle of comfort. In fact, the hobbit had barely spoken a word since the mayor, respectively followed by Fatty Bolger and Pippin, had arrived on his doorstep. There were too many questions wrangling the solace of his usually peaceful mind, but now the inquiries pestered and heckled him until he felt like resorting to screaming, which was quite an unmannerly thing to do, especially when there were guests around the table. Instead, he sighed, and decided to handle this misfortunate happenstance in a calm, polite manner.

"Ah, Frodo Baggins…" said the mayor, his bright eyes crinkling as the breadth of his smile expanded across his entire face, touching even his brow as it quirked with apparent glee.

Frodo couldn't muster a reasoning as to why Whitfoot should be so tickled, especially when Frodo felt like brawling right there on the spot. Whitfoot seemed to recollect his far-off thoughts, and the glaze that had fallen over his eyes lifted, like mists over a frosty meadow.

"Frodo, my boy, Bilbo was quite fond of you. It is apparent here, in this very letter, that the old chap had quite an extravagant place in his heart for his nephew! Now just a minute there, Mr. Baggins! You look as if you've the mind for interruption; give a tired old dog a moment to muster up an explanation for this here letter, for it has a mighty good one, I can reckon that!"

Whitfoot set down the saucer in his hand, which, balanced over it, had been a lovely tea cup made of fine porcelain. It had been one of Bilbo's favorite sets that he had used often for afternoon tea, when ruminating on long passed adventures and good old days, and wondering where all the promising days beneath the leathery soles of his proud hobbit feet had gone. Frodo felt a painful stab of remorse for letting such an impersonal guest as the mayor of Hobbiton use the beloved porcelain set, and had to suppress the urge to rip the cup right out of Whitfoot's old, undeserving hand. It would be quite a spectacle, Frodo knew this, and he could not afford his bruised reputation another beating if he could help it.

"Ah! Here we are. It seems as if those rattled marbles in this old mind of mine have settled again," he chuckled, almost to himself, as the entire table had not indulged in the personal jest. "Before Bilbo disappeared, or was it a few days after…ah, yes, quite right…after Bilbo disappeared, I received a visit from the post! Imagine that, the postmaster coming directly to me on errand for the likes of Bilbo Baggins! Yes, at first I was quite addled, and I daresay I quite thought Bilbo as cracked as they had all deemed him to be with the way he penned this little note here…."

Whitfoot then reached into the breast pocket of his pale blue overcoat and unsheathed Bilbo's letter from its concealment. He unfolded the parchment, muttering to himself all the while, and knitted his brow with concentration as he poured his eyes over the words, as if to regain some lost fragment of memory. Frodo, however, was not at all pleased with the manner in which Whitfoot spoke about his dear uncle, and felt very much driven by the urge to ask Mayor Whitfoot, in the most delicate fashion, of course, to leave his home. He had not realized that his hand had been so violently constricted into the shape of a fist, knuckles turning a rather sickly, ashen white with splatters of irritably pink about the edges of his fingers, until Sam had reached out and smothered the vicious display before Whitfoot, or anyone else for that matter, happened to notice it. Frodo, in turn, cast Sam an apologetic glance.

"'Frodo my lad', it begins, 'upon your fiftieth birthday, I have allowed old Will Whitfoot, most likely the former mayor by the time you recieve this old tattered thing, to announce your eligibility if you have not married by then – with a bit of a reward for the lass who woos you first!'. There now! I have said it. And Bilbo should have been very pleased to have you enlightened. Now Frodo," Whitfoot leaned in a little bit, and a skeptical look began to darken his naturally effervescent eye. "This is an expectation, I presume, by the way Bilbo has penned in this last bit. I should think so, as it is written in such bold lettering!"

Pippin had been looking as if he were burning with a question as imperative as life itself, and he suddenly found it the exact opportune moment to unleash it on his spectators. "And of this reward…" Pippin began tentatively.

"What of it, dear lad?" Whitfoot inquired.

"Exactly what is it? Did Bilbo enlighten us of that? Oh, I do hope it is a big one! That way, when we announce it to the public, everyone will be simply beside themselves with excitement of wooing our dear Frodo here."

"Pippin!" Frodo exclaimed. "That is not a desirable thing! Whatever this blasted dowry may be, I shall not want to know of it!"

"But Frodo-"

At the exact moment that Pippin was about to voice his opposition to Frodo's imprudent tenacity, he was inexorably silenced by the rather disquieting film of ferocity that Pippin had unearthed in his cousin's eye. It was quite a shock to him, and one would have thought that Frodo had chopped Pippin's quick, and unwitting, tongue clean off in the way that Pippin clamped his mouth completely shut and did not allow another singular sound escape it.

The mayor chortled heartily as he leaned forward to retrieve his walking stick, and then rose from his sitting position at Frodo's table. "You are a comical bunch! But I daresay, I should think all of you will know of this dowry of Frodo's before the close of this dreadful year. Why, Frodo is quite handsome, and many a daughter will have swooned over him before the night is over! Mark my words, Frodo Baggins, you shall be made a husband before long!"

"I beg of you, Master Whitfoot, to not impeach me of such folly. I shall be patient with my choosing, I think, more than you should assume of me," Frodo said, his voice wavering in its patient placidity. "I thank you for your explanation of this manner, but I should like for you not to meddle in this affair any longer. Good night to you sir!"

Mayor Whitfoot huffed a little, his mouth opening as if to protest Frodo's resolution, but deciding against it, closed it once more, looking very much like a fish gasping for breath out of water. Frodo seemed quite bent on his decision, and Whitfoot found in his face a stubbornness that could not be swayed, and therefore took his leave of the ungrateful hobbit, tramping down the flagstone steps of Bag End with his walking stick tapping irritably against the pathway.

"Well, I suppose we won't be seeing much more of him, Mister Frodo," Sam mused quietly as he appeared in the open doorway.

Frodo couldn't have more happily agreed.

If there ever was a time that Frodo had resented escaping death and returning home from his journey, it was most certainly now. He'd had more peace and quiet with that dreaded ring about his neck, whispering little tendrils of depravity and iniquity into his ears all through the light of day and under the shrouds of nightfall. His mind had been so twisted and malformed beneath the influence of the ring that he had become a monster within the shell of a once beloved friend. But even then, there had been more quietude than there was now!

All week, day, and sometimes a little into the night, hobbits would brazenly waltz right up to his doorstep, a place they had before deemed the haven of a self-righteous and madcap Baggins, and ring on his doorbell until he felt as if his ears would shatter from all the noise. At first, he had been foolish enough as to answer the door, and would be instantly bombarded with pleas and reasons as to why their daughter should be Mistress of Bag End. Frodo tried to be decent with them, but when civility failed him, he resorted to bad manners and shut the door right in their faces. After that, he vowed not answer the door and, if he could manage it, would ignore the existence of a door altogether.

But upon this notion, Frodo began to imagine himself living in a box to which there were no doors, no windows, and absolutely no means to escape. This made him feel claustrophobic, and he ushered the idea out of his mind before he went absolutely mad with terror.

Sometimes, Sam or Pippin and Merry would be at the door, and Frodo would be extra careful as to not attract any other unwanted visitors when he'd allow them in. The three of them had begun to notice the advancing stages of Frodo's paranoia, always starting at the sound of a knock, even if it was merely a woodpecker drilling through a tree outside. And if there was even the shuffle of feet outside his window, especially when the companions would sit down for afternoon tea or elevensies, Frodo would sort of conceal his face from the sunlight, like a creature of darkness shunning the sun. Sam almost had the mind to put up a scarecrow, as he entertained the idea that Frodo was being pecked mercilessly by the entirety of Hobbiton's nasty crows.

But with the dawning of this morning, Frodo was nearly overwhelmed by his jubilance as he looked outside to find the sky tremendously full of formidable black clouds; this meant a sign of impending rain, and therefore, no visitors!

Even so, if anyone had been desperate enough to venture out into the rain to pester him, he unpacked his weatherworn traveling cloak from its repose, and draped it over him, so that he could have just a whiff of fresh air after a week of being locked indoors.

The air was heavy with an autumn chill, and an austere wind whipped the flourished green meadows and flowers so that they bowed low in submission to the ferocious gale. Frodo's cheeks turned a pearly hue of blustered pink, but it was a refreshing sight, as he had been so pale for a long while. Dark locks of hair tickled his skin as it frantically twirled before his vision within the grasp of the wintry gusts, and his faded green cloak billowed and snapped uneasily about his feet. The last of summer had withered away at last.

The paths were blessedly vacant as Frodo descended the softly sloping hill of Bag End, heading towards the close thicket of trees which edged the borders of farmland of Hobbiton. Frodo was most definite in his heading for the thicket, but he was stopped dead in his tracks, paralyzed throughout the entirety of his body as he heard a voice call out behind him.

"Hoy there! What business have you to be prancing about here when it looks like rain?" exclaimed an irate, defensive hobbit. Frodo pulled the cloak a bit tighter about him out of instinct. "Aye stranger! If you are not wily, I should like to think you would show your face to me without fear!"

Frodo bit his tongue out of regret, but turned to face the encroaching voice, only to find himself face to face with his dear old friend, Sam. Sam seemed equally surprised, but the surprise which was etched across his face was also tarnished by discomfiture and shame. He, too, was wearing a travel-weary cloak, but it was newer, probably an old thing that Rosie had sewn for him a while back.

"Mister Frodo, is that you there? Pardon my hollerin'. I was just being wary!" Sam mumbled shamefacedly, wringing his hands, reddened from the biting cold, as he kicked a bit of loose soil with his feet.

"It is quite alright, Sam. I am not angry with you, and have no reason for annoyance!" Frodo assured him, and Sam's long, burdened face brightened a little by Frodo's kind words.

"So, if you don't mind my asking, where was it exactly that you were headed?" Sam asked, looking about the empty meadow, as if searching for an inkling as to Frodo's designated direction.

"For an escape, actually," Frodo confessed. "It has been quite a bother, this entire week, with these poachers at my door without relent! I am in desperate need for a good holiday, Sam." Frodo ran a troubled hand over his overwrought features, and Sam, watching his friend with soft-eyed sympathy, felt quite useless in all this madness. But then he had a small idea, something that might lift Frodo's doused spirits.

"Come hither, Mister Frodo. I know of a place that might liven you up a bit," Sam said, and took Frodo's arm gently, leading him back toward the direction of the homes, and Frodo's head panicked with rampaging thought. It had been the sole place he had hoped to escape, but now Sam was directing him back toward the ghastly place.

"Sam, what in heavens are you doing?! I had hoped to escape Hobbiton, not carouse in it!" Frodo exclaimed.

Sam seemed not to notice Frodo's panicked tone, as far as Frodo knew. But Sam had taken it into only quiet consideration, not acknowledging his companion's unnecessary frenzy in the speaking world, as Frodo was acting quite ridiculous in his eyes. Ringbearer or not, it wasn't right for him to lock the outside world away, like some lecherous fiend, and hide in the folds of his own discontentment. All things that grow need sunlight, and Frodo was not exempted from this natural rule.

"Off to the Green Dragon we are, Mister Frodo. And I'll not let you flounder off, so I think it best you submit while you still have strength in you!"

Frodo suddenly burst into a fit of laughter as Sam's persistence seemed so awfully grave and serious, and he could not help feeling his spirits rise, despite the rain which had begun to fall in sheets across the lush grasses of the battered meadows. Just being with Sam made Frodo feel better, just like the days he had spent in bitter cold and resentment, when Sam would break through the wall of darkness and rescue Frodo from the malevolence of the ring. Even if it was just a smile or an encouraging word, the shadows in Frodo's eyes were chased away, and a new resilience reborn from the ashes of a once strangled hope.

Sam was always there to remind Frodo that while there was still breath left in him, there would always be hope.

It was a relief, to both Sam and Frodo, that as they walked through the doorway of the Green Dragon, a warm and comforting atmosphere rushed forth to greet them in an almost tangible entity. Smoke from the pipeweed dangled in the air, and the rush of small talk and sporadic outbursts of laughter emitted from various corners of the tavern. Sam noticed right away old Ted Sandyman, and the nasty look in his eye instilled an ill feeling in Sam's subconscious. Frodo was oblivious; he was still trying to acclimate himself to being in the presence of a place that held such good memories for him.

But Ted was quite aware of the infamous Baggins that had just strode in, and was peeved enough when all the attention was stolen from him with just a whiff of Frodo's name as he was getting to a good part of his rather climatic story. He disliked that Frodo Baggins; it wasn't right for a hobbit to get so much attention, especially for such a queer thing as going off on some wild adventure, just like his old cracked uncle. One of the girls looked as if they were going to swoon, as Frodo looked quite handsome, even with his hair sodden and all a mess. But his cheeks looked warm and lively, with that newfound flush ignited in them.

Ted, in a fit of self-righteous anger, stood up suddenly, abandoning his ale in an attempt to rid this ungrateful Baggins.

"Ho there, al' Frodo Baggins! It seems a mighty fine occasion indeed for the likes of you, being so kingly and rich and all, to grace us lowly peasants with your presence!" Ted announced, crossing his arms defiantly over his stout chest, and grating his teeth over his long, poorly honed mahogany pipe.

"Ted Sandyman, you stupid old goat, leave Mister Frodo alone and go back to your ale!" Sam warned, taking one long stride in front of Frodo, shielding him from the haughty gaze of unfriendly eyes. But Frodo placed a hand on Sam's shoulder and quelled his defensive stance, then took a step forward toward his contender.

"I hold myself on no higher ground than upon what you stand, Ted Sandyman," Frodo said quietly. "Your judgment is of me is poor, and yet you know me only by my name."

Ted stamped his feet irritably. "Why you, you impudent brute. I have a mind to bruise that pretty al' face of yours, and what then would become of your lady followers? They won't think you so lovely then!"

Sam lunged forward, his hands meshed together into the shape of balled fists, but before he could reach that toad Sandyman and give him a good whipping, Frodo outstretched an arm, holding him back.

"No Sam, this is not your battle." Frodo whispered to him, and Sam begrudgingly stood back, jaw clenched, fists still pulled taut as bowstrings. If only he could grasp a hold on that petty miller, he'd wring his neck until he turned blue in the face!

"I should like to think you too cowardly to even dare, Ted," Frodo mused. "Have you ever wielded a fist before?"

"You're crossing into dangerous country, lad. It's best you turn back, if you know what's good for you." Ted admonished forebodingly.

"Why?" Frodo inquired, his own countenance melting into that of a warrior. "Why should I allow you to berate me? It is no fairer than if I were to deem you an incompetent, illiterate, mutton-headed fool."

"Mutton-headed fool!" Ted exclaimed, and he charged forward, like a batting ram, and with brute force, catapulted himself and Frodo to the floor. Both hobbits wrestled for dominance, but Sam intervened, quick to assist his friend as he, quite literally, landed himself in a heap of trouble. But the brawl did not subsist for long, as a feminine voice rang out, a strangely musical cry, though sharp with notes of fury.

"Why you stubborn mule, Ted Sandyman! Get off the poor hobbit, and until you've set your mind right again, I don't want even a glimpse of your dusty old face here! Off you go!"

Sam pushed Sandyman off his weary friend, and while he stood guard, Frodo was extended a hand to help him to his feet. It was quite lovely, and the color of freshly drawn milk, or the softly radiant petals of a white rose. But Frodo was not given the chance to look at the face of his savior until she had hoisted up on his feet again. She was pretty enough, though not extraordinary in exquisite beauty. Her eyes were the most lovely intricacy of her features, a golden shade, almost like dripping honey caught in the light of the sun. He noticed she had a cleaning rag in the hand that was not occupied in pulling him up from the ground, and if that hadn't given her profession away, her apron most certainly did.

"I do apologize, Miss, for having chased away your most valued customer," Frodo mumbled humbly. "Sandyman and I seem incapable of seeing eye to eye."

"Don't worry yourself over such things," she retorted. "He's a naturally combative tyrant, and it will be a nice reprieve, not having to endure his incessant jabber."

She then left Frodo to his own devices, and returned to her post behind the long slab of carved wood, which served as a serving bar for the hostelry. There was already a hobbit there, eagerly awaiting her return in order to receive a much appreciated pint of ale, especially when under the gray spell of such dreary weather.

But Frodo did not dismiss her from his mind so easily, and even as Sam went off to fetch the ale, he still mulled over the girl within the secrecy of his own head. When Sam returned, sliding a mug of ale in his direction, he made himself a pact that he'd ask about her.

A few minutes of silence passed between the friends, Frodo's spent in silent deliberation and Sam's in morbid discontent. He tapped his fingers restlessly against the brass shape of his mug, and bit on his lip, searching for a few words he could say to explain himself.

"Mister Frodo, do accept my apology. I meant no harm to come to you; in fact, I'd hoped it do you some good to come here, to the old Green Dragon." Sam uttered mournfully.

Frodo laughed as he took a draught of his ale. "Sam, Sam…you waste too much time in foolish penance. How in heavens were you to suspect Sandyman having such a temper?"

"Exactly, and yet, I feel quite thoughtless for bringing you down here, especially against your own will."

"Throw out those pesky regrets, Sam. They are wasted on absurdity, and I wish you to drink with me without all that false accusation."

Sam seemed to smile to himself, and took a long drink from his ale. This seemed his acceptance of Frodo's advice, and was quite content with himself afterwards.

"Now," Frodo began. "Tell me Sam, who is that there in the barmaid's apron? I have not seen her face before."

Sam swallowed the ale swirling about his tongue and turned his head to acknowledge the girl that had enamored Frodo's attention. His brow creased in frustration at the alien sight which met his eyes; how could he have not noticed the unfamiliar barmaid before now? It had been Rosie's previous position, after all, before she'd had Elanor of course. But even as Sam had ventured over to the maid for the mugs of ale, he had not spared even a thought or recognition of the vacancy Rosie had left behind being filled. He'd been so consumed by his humiliation and subsiding anger that he'd simply not detected her.

But now that he did look, Sam could not say he recognized the soft, pretty face of the new barmaid, not even a flicker of familiarity that would spark with the declaration of familiarity in his mind. He couldn't recall seeing anyone that looked similar to her at Frodo's party, only a week now it was, and yet her image did nothing to impart even the smallest fraction of detection in his head. But, then again, Sam had seen so many different faces that night that it did not surprise him that he couldn't remember her.

"Sorry, Mister Frodo. But I can't say I could even reckon who she is. I've not seen her 'round here either."

Frodo furrowed his brow into a deep crease, studying her with a concerted eye, as if trying to unearth her name merely by studying her agile figure. But Frodo's whimsical gaze was broken when, out of the corner of his peripheral vision, Frodo saw an older hobbit, most likely a farmer as he could guess by his fashion, lean over and tap his shoulder.

"'Scuse me, Mister Baggins, but I seemed to have overheard you askin' 'bout the likes of that girl over hither," drawled the farmer.

"Indeed, sir. What of her do you know?" Frodo asked in a hushed whisper.

The farmer seemed to catch the gesture of secrecy, and lowered his head to be closer to Frodo's ear. "That's 'al Rosemary Noakes, daughter of Rudigar and Mirabella. They juss' migrated into Hobbiton just last week, juss' in time fer your birthday party, Mister Baggins."

"Oh, and where from did they migrate?" Frodo asked.

"Bucklebury, so said Rudigar himself," he replied.

"I thank you, sir, for informing me of such details," Frodo said to the hobbit, and he merely nodded wearily in reply, returning happily to his mug.

"Rosemary…"Frodo muttered under his breath, looking over briefly at the girl one last time before turning to Sam, who was thoroughly engaged in his ale. "Sam," he said. "You know how I have been positively assaulted by hobbits all week?"

"Of course, Mister Frodo." Sam frowned curiously.

"Then if they will not relent now, they certainly won't later. I fear they will never yield until I take a wife, and only then will this whole noxious affair be over and done with."

Sam's frown deepened even more, so that his entire countenance seemed submerged beneath a weighty expression of dubiety. "What are you saying, Mister Frodo?"

"I am saying that, in order to regain my lost solitude, I shall have to resort to impetuous decision," he said to Sam, then, turning to the farmer, he asked a simple, yet all-revealing question.

"Excuse my hindrance, good sir, but would you kindly direct me to the home of Rudigar Noakes?"

Frodo himself could hardly believe his own rash judgment, even as he stood before the painted white door of the home of Rudigar and Mirabella Noakes. He hardly knew the girl, and was not an exceedingly brazen hobbit, and therefore not prone to making appalling mistakes, such as the one he was about to devote himself to in a mere few moments. But drastic times were in store for the poor hobbit, that is, if he did not first resort to drastic measures.

There was the pitter-patter of the leathery soles of hobbit feet, barely discernable from the outside of the pristine, neat little hobbit hole. But Frodo straightened up, gave his own hand a squeeze for encouragement, and drew a cleansing breath. It would all be over in a matter of moments, he assured himself.

But all hope for any amount of confidence fled from him the instant the door opened, and a rather thin, at least in hobbit standards, older-looking hobbit woman appeared at the entrance. At first, her eyes were hooded with deep concern, and she looked quite put out indeed. But then recognition reached her, and she gave a disquieting squeal of delight.

"Oh my, can it truly be?!" She exclaimed. "The famous Frodo Baggins of the Shire at my doorstep! Oh, and look at me, I am quite a mess. Come in, dear! The air seems to have found its chill again, and you might catch cold! Oh, you frail little thing. There are some biscuits in the drawing room, freshly made! You look a wraith, my dear. Don't you eat, silly lad? Oh, what am I doing, detaining you in this otherworldly cold! Come in!"

Frodo would admit he was slightly amused, if not entirely entertained, by the woman's fluster. She reminded him of those squawking peacocks with a taste for trading scandal, those gossip hounds Sam so ardently disliked. But she seemed kind enough on the surface, and that was enough for Frodo at the moment, as his nerves were at their wit's end.

He was ushered into a dainty drawing room, one that was so vastly miniscule compared to the one in Bag End. It was comfortable, however, and Frodo hardly noticed the difference in size, as it was tastefully decorated in quiet tones of green and brown and tawny. The table, upon which a plate of biscuits and a tea set were placed, looks as if it were glossed to its high, potent shine almost every day, and was a lovely cherry wood, from what Frodo could discern. Apparently the mistress of the home was quite a decorator; Frodo wondered if Rosemary, if she accepted him, would do the same to Bag End.

"Sit,sit, good lad! You look as if you haven't rested in days, you poor thing. Biscuit?" She asked, and a plate of freshly baked biscuits were shoved in Frodo's face.

"I have hardly come here for food, Madame, if you do not mistake my meaning." Frodo said meekly.

Mirabella Noakes was not an incompetent woman, and caught the gesture of Frodo's meaning almost immediately. She bit her lip in anticipation, and her face began to flush with the excitement she was evidently restraining, in respect for Frodo's silent demeanor.

"I shall fetch Rudigar!" She cried, and instantly stood up from her seat beside Frodo. "Rudigar, Rudigar, you old bat, where have you gone to?!"

Frodo tucked his hands beneath him, feeling as if he should touch anything, he'd be struck for such impropriety. It felt quite awkward, sitting in the drawing room which belonged to a family he'd never met, and he was counting the moments before he'd be permitted to take his leave. Thankfully, for him, Mirabella was a hasty woman, especially when it came to marrying off her only daughter, and to the richest, most handsome gentlehobbit in Hobbiton no less!

She arrived back into the drawing room with Rudigar, and Frodo recognized the haggard features of the household master immediately, having had a lengthy conversation with the hobbit just a week before. Mirabella pushed him eagerly in, but, before she could take her seat to witness the glorious event, that which she was so certain with every fiber of her being would happen, Rudigar dismissed his wife sternly, and she pouted visibly as she ventured out into the garden. That way, with her being so close to the window, she'd hear every word that was spoken! And oh, how Begolia Bracegirdle would be so envious to hear of this, with her unmarried daughter, Jezebel, having been acclaimed has the prettiest girl in Hobbiton!

Mirabella smiled wickedly to herself and flounced happily out of the drawing room.

Rudigar now greeted Frodo with an air of informality, and was quite keen to have the opportunity to talk with him again.

"How very nice to see you again, Master Baggins. I take it you are well?" Rudigar offered Frodo a polite, yet ostensibly genuine smile.

"Quite, actually," Frodo assured him. "But I have come here for a very grave purpose."

"Oh?" Rudigar questioned, perhaps a little amused by Frodo's somber demeanor.

"Indeed," Frodo said. "Perhaps you ought to sit."

"Don't mind if I do." Said the old hobbit, and the both of them settled themselves into the comfortable sofas. Mirabella's pruning shears were frantically snipping at the withered roses outside the window.

"Now, dear hobbit, what service may I offer you?" Rudigar asked.

"I have come, Master Noakes, to inquire after your daughter Rosemary's hand." Frodo explained, and the instant the words 'inquire', 'Rosemary' and 'hand' escaped Frodo's lips, the clipping shears went oddly quiet for a moment, and a little ecstatic squeal, which could have easily been mistook for the outcry of a hog, could be heard outside the window. But the shears seemed to remember their purpose, and resumed their work.

"Is that so? Have you interest in our daughter?" Rudigar asked plaintively.

"Quite an interest, actually; hence the reason for my coming here and asking your permission," Frodo replied, an edge appearing in his short-tempered voice.

"I should have no reservations of giving her to you, Master Baggins. And since a fellow like you has asked for her hand, I shall be all the more secure in my decision of handing off my only, and precious, daughter for marriage. For, I am sure, you will provide well for her – better than our own endeavors, I should hope!"

"Have you endured hardships, good sir?" Frodo asked.

"Hardships I only consider natural to those of our social standing," Rudigar's shoulders lolled gently to the side, as if brushing off the topic lightly. "I daresay Rosemary shall be required a few months to grow accustomed to living in – what is it called again? Ah yes, Bag End. "

"Months I can afford easily." Frodo promised him.

"Good," Rudigar said. "Then it is settled. I shall inform Rosemary upon her return of your intentions to marry. Mirabella, my dear, you may come in now and show Master Baggins here to the door, as he is weary!"

Mirabella pounced upon the idea of speaking with the renowned Frodo Baggins once more and hurried in from her gardening to see him out. Rudigar bid Frodo a good evening and disappeared back into the corridors of the hole. Frodo allowed the Mistress Noakes to show him out the door.

"You take care now, Master Baggins, or you shall catch cold for your wedding day! Bad omen, it is, to fall sick before you are to be married!" She called after him as he made his way down the path, to the white picket fence, where he took his leave through the gate. "Goodbye now!"

With a heavy heart of the condemned, Frodo dragged his weary feet back to Bag End, where he would lock himself in his sleeping quarters, and draw over him a film of good, dreamless slumber.


End file.
